Smoking Darts, Breaking Hearts

the hill looks over the town
well wishers and suicides drink
the image of a landmass once empty
then full—
now somehow deflated,
riding the boom and bust
in our car feathers once used
for flying
hang softly, mechanically from
a pentacle catching images,
impressions,
dust-covered dreams come and gone
across the days and nights of the town

 

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